


Use Words Not Spit

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied Mpreg, M/M, along with paupat, dubcon, for tom being tipsy when they initiate sex, its just there... in the bg, pettiness? off the charts in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks
Summary: Tom and Tord aren't speaking to everyone's collective annoyance





	Use Words Not Spit

Maybe it’s hormones. It was par for the course for omegas to be temperamental with a bun in the oven. Or maybe it’s the fact Tord is an asshole and Tom’s sanity has eroded after having been with him for several years.

Either way he does it and he isn’t really quite sure why, he just knows the grim satisfaction he gets from watching Tord slowly wipe away the trailing thread of spit from where it’s caught hanging down from his eyebrow lasts all too short as he sees the slow dawning look of rage come across Tord’s face.

“Oh shit,” Tom mutters.

“Oh shit is right” is what Tord’s look shoots back, but he doesn’t vocalize it. Not here. Not with his men behind him standing, watching. He raises his arm, his metal one and Tom flinches. Him and Tord have been through this rodeo before. Enrage then engage in violent sex until the two of them are burnt out and Tord’s fragile ego has been restored by grinding Tom into the bed like he was snuffing out a cigarette in an ash tray.

But the difference is, this incident occurred in front of Tord’s command and Tord doesn’t have the slack to just waltz off with Tom right now and handle things. Usually they’re good about this. It’s an unspoken agreement that they keep their lover’s tiffs to the bedroom, or at least out of line of sight of Tord’s entire command.

Whoops.

Tord straightens himself up and drops his arm again, making a half-hearted shooing motion with it, “I’m done with you.” 

It is all he says in a flat cold monotone and Tom takes that as his dismissal and while he is arrogant and egotistical himself, close to par with Tord at his peaks, he knows when to beat a hasty retreat and takes his opportunity.

Tom thinks Tord will come talk to him when he calms down enough to not visibly quake and turn the shade of his turtleneck on recalling the memory.

Tom is wrong.  
When Tord says he is done, he means Tom is shunted off whatever mutual duties they had together, he means his private quarters are rerouted and his access keys changed, he means he doesn’t want to see or hear a whisper of Tom.

That’s what he means.

Turns out Tord is still not speaking to him when Tom makes a discovery. Heats still occur during pregnancy, and not only do they still occur, they’re worse.

Hunched over as a wash of something sickly, slick, and ever so wet comes rushing down his legs, Tom grits his teeth and manages to pull himself together to realize that this argument has festered well past its expiration date and that he needs to be the one to pour peroxide in it.

He knocks on the door to the sector he knows Tord’s quarters are located in. Once. Twice. Three times. Then an incessant pounding until a guard on patrol catches him and despite Tom’s flagrant rank pulling, dismisses him.

Bastard.

Tom mutters the word to himself the whole way back as he trudges his way back to his room. Sickening waves of nausea crash over him as he lays in the bathroom pressing his head to the cool tile of his shower as the world about him seesaws. 

Patryck is flipping through channels eying the news coverage of their most recent advancements on the front when the knock comes. Paul is asleep next to him. Officer life has softened him up considerably and it is from the comfort of his rather plush stomach that Patryck rises as he hears the knock. It is so timid and the blaring tv so noisy that he barely catches it over the din, but if Patryck is one thing, he is observant.

He opens the door and there standing in all his pallid glory, looking a lovely seasonal shade of puce, is Tom. Patryck reads it instantly by the way he holds himself, much less the wave of stink that encroaches across his doorway as soon as it is opened.

“Can I-,” Tom starts and Patryck is honestly afraid he is going to vomit halfway through his sentence.

“Come in,” He says instantly, stepping aside to usher Tom in. “I take it Tord hasn’t made up with you since the incident.”

Incident. Yes, Patryck was always one to cut around accusations, knowing that they were like tinder to Tord and Tom and that conversations tended to progress farther the blander and more inoffensive his language was.

“Make up with me,” Tom exploded, shoulders heaving as he struggled to express the weight of emotion on him. “I haven’t even seen him since….” Tom doesn’t bother finishing. He doesn’t want to name the action that got him hear so he just lets it speak for itself in the rooms silence.

He isn’t really sure why spitting in his face felt so damn good. Maybe it was because of all the degrading, shitty, nasty things Tord had said and did to him, Tom felt like he could strike things even with one impulsive action.

He couldn’t remember what they were arguing about, just that he was tired and achy and Tord had said something that really nettled him enough for him to respond with bristling rage.

“I need help,” Tom says, and he tries to keep the suggestive low tone out of his voice but it creeps in there anyway and he feels like a sleaze ball immediately after.

“Tord would kill me, and I do not mean that metaphorically,” Patryck cut in as Tom opened his mouth. “If I were to help you in any direct manner. As much as he is at odds with you now, you have a name on your back Tom, and it’s his.”

Tom looks miserable. Really. He is crumbling onto the table, head in his hands as the realization hits him that his nausea and pains aren’t just going to vanish through any other means than getting back on Tord’s good side because he not only rigged the game. He owns the board. And at the moment that would be a feat for champions.

“I can help you though,” Patryck said, cautious smile playing across his lips as he brushed a soft ringlet of hair out of his face and behind his ear. 

“How?”

“Don’t worry about all the logistics, I’ll handle them. In my room there is a box full of necessities for the situation your in. I know it isn’t fun. I know it isn’t pleasant. But take care of yourself-.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already been trying that?” Tom sighed in irritation. “If I could solve my problem with a toy I wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m aware and as I said, leave the rest to me. I’ll either solve your problem or double it, but in the straits you’re in I assume that is a risk you are receptive to?”

Tom mulled over the question for a moment before nodding. Patryck smiled and got up returning with a half empty liter of Tom’s dearest friend. Alcohol.

“I trust you not to go overboard, but it can’t hurt,” He said, gripping the neck and holding it out to Tom.

“I owe you,” Tom said gratefully gripping the other end of the bottle.

“Trust me, when you and Tord are in a spat, you aren’t the only one who suffers. Paul and I are doing ourselves an administrative favor as much as we are doing you one.”

“His mood that shit?”

“You have no idea,” Paul said, smile folding into a grimace at some unspoken memory.

Tom takes a swing from the bottle and feels the headiness rush to great him, a wash of warm that only stokes the current fire within him. He finds Pat’s supplies laid out for him on the bed and without much cause for hesitation, he picks at random and sets to things.

He manages out a shitty orgasm that while not what he is looking for long term in regards to ending things, helps taper out the harsher edge of his heat. When he returns to Patryck he reeks of smug satisfaction and just sex in general.

“Alright now get back to your quarters and take the long way,” Patryck said.

“What?” Tom asks, startled at being abruptly ousted from Pat’s home. 

“Trust me on this one, go,” Patryck says. “Any longer and you are going to be a hazard to Paul and I as you are now.”

Tom isn’t really sure what Patryck means by that but his meaningful look doesn’t really welcome more questions so for once, Tom does as he is asked.

He walks in the corridor. The corridors in the base are always cooler than the rooms, something about them just holds a chill longer than any of the individual boxes in which the company resides. Tom shivers as he walks, feeling the raw heat threatening to come prickling back. He sighs as he was kind of enjoying the momentary abatement.

Something tickles at his senses as he walks, he knows it is familiar but can’t quite understand what it is until he is standing nose to nose with it. Him.

Tom’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow back down in irritation as he stands closer to Tord than he had been in close to a week.

“Tom,” Tord says looking at him clinically. “You’re a mess.” There is a slight leer to the way he eyes him.

“I am going back to my room,” Tom says and he puts an emphasis on the ‘my’. But as he says so he seems to lean into Tord and inhale. Tord looks at him, unimpressed.

“Why don’t you come back to mine,” Tord says and there is a purr to his voice and that has Tom spitting mad. Not literally this time. Because of course Tord wants him now. Now when the odds are so clearly in his favor and he can bend and break things on his whim.

“No,” He bites, moving to sidestep Tord.

“No?” Tord is, admittedly confused. Tom is in heat. Drunk. Riled up from something. He doesn’t know how the cards could be more in his favor yet here he is looking at his lover staring at him like a piece of gutter filth.

“I want you,” Tom says pulling a shaking inhale as he wrestles with his own indignation. “To say you’re sorry.”

“I’m the one who has to be sorry,” Tord said, disbelief flooding his tone as he felt the prickle of the old fight coming back to him. “I’m sorry you spit in my face in front of my entire command.”

“Whatever you said before that was just as shitty,” Tom fired back.

“You can’t even remember why you are angry,” Tord said in exasperation. “Please Tom, try to be more unreasonable.”

“I’m angry because you don’t respect me,” Tom says and Tord rolls his eyes in annoyance and goes to put a hand on Tom’s shoulder but Tom shrugs him off and starts to turn his back. There’s a sound of a wheeze and something close to a whimper and for the first time Tord starts to remember that Tom is probably in the shittiest physical condition he has ever been in outside of a hospital.

He had complained about it for months leading up to this point. Too hot, too cold, nausea for no reason, sharp pains, no appetite, mood swings that left him laying on the floor of their bedroom with Tord talking to him softly trying to coax him into getting up.

Where had that side of their relationship gone? The nurturing loving side. The side where Tord picked Tom up when he was down and Tom did likewise. When did it just devolve into them tearing each other down so either of them could eek out a shred of self-worth standing among the remains of their tattered emotions?

Tord, to his surprise and relief, feels the anger sap out of him. He strides to catch up with Tom who is feeling his way along the wall to keep his balance as he tries to limp off to his bedroom.

“Tom wait,” Tord said. Tom keeps walking. “Come back to my quarters, seriously.” Tom keeps going. Tord sighs heavily, rolls his eyes again and slouches after Tom. It always devolved to playground level shit between them, didn’t it?

“Tom, I’m sorry.” Tord says and for his credit, years of lying actually makes it sound half sincere.

Tom pauses and looks over at him.

“For what?” 

Tord smiles and its tight and has far too many teeth and he is pretty sure molars shouldn’t crack like that.

“I am sorry for agitating you during a very vulnerable time, I understand this is hard and I should cut you some leeway.”

“You’ve cum on my face before, several times, I hope you realize when it comes to tit for tat we are sorely behind,” Tom says, but there is a smile edging up at the corner of one of his lips and Tord knows that that is the crack in the dam that has the tide rushing in his favor.

“Come here,” He says and before Tom can meet him, he is sliding his hand over Tom’s back, pulling him bodily closer and kissing him. Tom is, for once, easy about it. He tastes like alcohol and if Tord couldn’t sense his lover was as raw as a slab of meat he would comment on it, but quickly decides not to push it.

They are back in his room in little to no time and Tom is getting kissed and nipped at in places he had sorely missed the contact. His legs come apart easily and he is getting his pants off as fast as possible, crinkling his nose at the fact they are in sore need of washing later.

“You good?” Tord asked and when Tom nodded he resumed sucking a rather nice hicky into Tom’s neck as he further relaxed into the bed. From there on out Tord’s fingers work their way in Tom and he finds himself getting all too excited for someone of his season. 

It’s cute and Tord finds himself less interested in hickies than he is in kissing Tom’s cheeks and nose and running soothing hands up his body, kissing the nooks and crannies of the person he honestly, really, sincerely loves most in the world, even if he drives him up a wall.

Tom can’t keep his chuckles at Tord’s antics to himself and they bubble up until Tord has to stop and it’s just the two of them, forehead to forehead, laughing at each other and themselves.

Tom’s heat does eventually catch back up to him and they move forward Tord lining himself up and then pushing in, enjoying the way Tom rocks his body underneath him as he gives long slow thrusts. The itch, the burn, the feeling that he is sleazing his way out of his own sweaty skin evaporates as Tom loses himself in the motion of Tord’s body.

When he comes it clears away the pent up frustration, the resentment, the willingness to hold onto petty gripes and for Tord likewise as he holds him close while they both come down from their respective climaxes.

Somewhere in the base, back on Paul’s mound of a stomach enjoying every now and then the vibrations from Paul's snores, Patryck is flipping through channels disinterestedly, sitting smug in the fact that Tom and Tord haven’t been seen or heard from in a while.

He’ll take that as a good sign.


End file.
